


The West Wind

by Tammany



Series: Brexit and Trump [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Catastrophe control, Gen, Post Trump, Post-Brexit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:59:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8895736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This is a sort of follow on to "Referendum."  It took awhile...just as the UK is still struggling with the aftermath of Brexit, the US is in a very bad position with the election of Trump. Some rejoice--far fewer than the majority, though. The rest of us are finding our way, as is Mycroft in this story. It's quiet. It's low-key. I hope you like it. Hope is where you find it.





	

Greg was afraid, though he didn’t dare admit it. Admission might be that one push too many, that one straw that weighted down the load until the patient camel stumbled, fell—and died. For weeks Mycroft had been laboring on, resolute, courageous, pulling detail after detail back into some alignment—only to have it all go flying wide the second some new aftershock rattled through.

“I’m trying to maintain rudimentary order,” Mycroft said, wide mouth grim; neat, squared chin set. Everything was set—his shoulders, his spine, the head held high on his long swan’s neck. His hands were set, graceful, floating over the keyboard of his laptop. His tie was set. His waistcoat. A statue was less composed, more spontaneous and alive.

Greg, standing in his usual space, half-way into the office and no further, sank his hands into his pockets and gazed out at London—a grand lady in gray and white widow’s weeds, waiting to see what happened next. That was what Greg, too, was doing—waiting to see what happened next.

“Is there much point?” he asked. “It’s going to be awhile before ‘order’ has much meaning, yeah? Last I heard the tactic during a storm is hunker down, stay safe, and don’t come out till the wind drops.”

“And yet, the ship of state must sail on,” Mycroft said, voice empty of hope. “Someone must hold the wheel.”

“Yeah? Not just going to put out the sheet anchor and bring in the sails and keep watch for rocks and reefs and otherwise let the wind take you where it will?”

Mycroft didn’t answer. Greg didn’t expect it. He didn’t even know why he tried. He knew the Holmes brothers. He didn’t understand them—but he knew them perhaps as well as anyone could honestly claim, and he knew Mycroft Holmes was not going to let his barriers down for the mere goldfish who paddled around in Mycroft’s smallest fishpond. Mycroft Holmes didn’t let his barriers down.

Even Sherlock was worried.

“He ought to start a war,” he grumbled to Lestrade one evening, over pints in Lestrade’s preferred local. “Not a big one—some stupid little third-world brush fire. It would relieve the tension.”

“Might be easier on the world if he took up boxing,” Lestrade growled, unhappy at the notion of war as a way for Mycroft Holmes to vent his feelings. “Fewer deaths and rapes.”

“Yes, yes, I know—all the petty moral concerns. It’s not like one ever increases the number of deaths in the world—one per person, regardless of what you do. It’s merely a matter of time and circumstance.”

“Daresay I’d rather die happy in bed at ninety,” Lestrade said, and collected their glasses for a refill. Discussing the state of the world with Sherlock was less painful if one was at least partially blitzed.

Now, waiting on the elder Holmes, he wished he could order a long tall one here, too. It didn’t help that looking at the man set up sympathetic tension in his own body, pushing him to stand taller, more upright, shoulders back, stomach in, jaw high. He could feel a headache starting, the stress in his scalp so extreme he knew if he tried to massage it free it would hurt for quite some time before he relaxed enough to recover.

“You need to let go,” he said. “Not forever. But—you’re probably making things worse, you know.”

Mycroft’s eyes burned like dry ice. He didn’t deign to answer.

“Yeah, all right.” He slipped his thumbdrive from his pocket. “So—here. Look it over. Nothing likely to need work, but you should have it to keep the records continuous.” He flipped it onto the surface of the desk.

Mycroft glanced, and frowned. “I had thought we were going to discuss your findings.”

“Nothing to discuss.” Lestrade sighed and turned away. No point saying there was no one there to discuss it with—that Mycroft’s head was miles away, in Moscow, in Washington D.C., in Germany, in France…anywhere but in London. He shrugged and settled his overcoat more securely around him and shoved his hands deep in the pockets. “You know where to find me if you have any questions.” By the time he exited the office, Mycroft’s attention had already returned to the laptop screen.

“He’s losing weight,” Sherlock muttered over a well-rotted corpse a week later.

“Huh?” Lestrade’s mind was on death and putrescence, his nose filled with the scent of Tiger Balm, his upper lip stinging with the menthol-cinammon burn.

“Mycroft. He’s losing weight.”

“Diet going well, then?”

Sherlock’s growl was savage. “He’s forgetting to eat.”

“So take him out for fish and chips. That’ll fatten him up, if you’re dead set on sabotaging his diet.”

“He’s not on a diet.”

“You always say he is…”

Sherlock growled again. “He’s…pining. This damned political bollocks. He can’t let it go.”

“Well—it is his area, after all. Seems only sensible he’s takin’ it hard.”

“There’s a time to stop trying to force the outcome.” Sherlock prodded glistening, sticky flesh with the end of a twig. Unsettlingly, it poked straight through what remained of the skin, sinking in a good quarter inch. “Or you steer into the turn. He’s fighting the change.”

Lestrade grunted in agreement, understanding the point. “He’s not one for Little England. And his opinion of Trump can’t be printed out—the printer catches fire.”

“Still. He’s pining.”

“So take him out. You’re his brother.”

Sherlock’s glare said quite clearly that this was all the more reason he shouldn’t make the attempt.

Later that night Greg thought about it.

Mycroft seemed an odd choice to pity—but he could see the man in his mind’s eye: tall, lean, worried, determined—adrift. Lost. In pain.

Lying in bed with his eyes closed, Lestrade could see it clear as day. He swore, sullenly. Why should he care? They were not close, except in the sense of being a working team, and often not even that. He was brought into play when Mycroft needed him, and otherwise left to his own devices—which was how he’d always preferred it. Sherlock was enough Holmes to cope with most days. Mycroft would have been too much, right? The man was mourning. So what? He wouldn’t accept a hankie and a nose-wipe from Lestrade, after all.

In spite of that he found himself on the phone early that morning, in the dim of dawn.

“Mum? Yeah, Greg. Look, you know I’m planning to come out your way this month to clean up the garden and get you ready for winter, right? Yeah. Yeah. Thought I’d rake and burn and put in some fresh bulbs. You’ve lost some of your favorites and I thought I’d fill in the spaces a bit. Yeah. Yeah—the thing is, do you mind if I bring someone along? No, not a friend, exactly. Colleague. No, no—no romance. Just a bloke I work with. Why? Um—look. I know you’re happy about Brexit, but a fair lot of the rest of us aren’t. He’s one of ‘em. Hit him hard. I thought—hell. I thought maybe a weekend in the West Country would do him some good—and he might help you understand a bit better why I don’t want to talk about it. Good for all of us. No, you don’t have to do more than treat him like folks, Mum. I’ll make up tea for us all in the evening, and you can watch your telly. Just figure he’s my guest and he’s having a shit time, all right?”

When he hung up he swore again. Holmes would never go for this—and if he did, what the fuck was it going to be like? His Mum, all chipper and pert and sure that Brexit would bring back the feeling of England she’d enjoyed as a girl in WWII, all blitz and England surviving by sheer miracle and guts, and ration books and Our Boys and everyone on one side. You could hear the joy in her voice as she explained how it was all going to be all right again, England for Englanders, and that’s how it should be. And Mycroft, who’d spent his entire life trying to give England the globe to make up for the Empire, ready to take her face off? And good old Greg in the middle?

Bloody, bloody hell.

In spite of himself, though, he asked Mycroft.

“Look, I’m going out to Somerset this weekend, do some clean-up in the back garden for my Mum. Rake some. Burn off the rubbish. Plant some bulbs and fill in her perennial beds. Told her I might bring a friend this time. Thought you might come along.”

The look on Mycroft’s face was so shocked and appalled as to be insulting. “Good God— _why?_ ”

Irritated, he glowered at Mycroft. “Because you need to get your arse out of London. Because if I hear Sherlock tell me one more time you’re losing weight I’m going to come force feed you myself. Because I could use a hand wi’ the leaves. Because you’re so damned gloomy Anthea’s thinking of transferring. So you come along and you behave your arse in front of my mother, and I take you out for cockles or fish and chips, and you get rid of that long face. Or so help me, we all rise up and kill you, ‘cause you’re not fit for human company, right?”

Mycroft reared back, head up, chin down, brows furrowed, eyes stunned. “Excuse me?”

“No, you listen. You’re being a fucking Eeyorish pillock, and I’m right tired of it. But I’m right tired of my Mam, too, all on about how wonderful it’s all gonna be when we ship out the Poles and the Muslim doctors and double the money for the National Health. It’s like being caught between two equal but opposite idiots. So this way she can keep her damn mouth shut to be polite to you, and you can keep your damned mouth shut to be polite to her, and I may, if I’m lucky, get some work done in the back garden. So pack your bags and be ready to go Friday evening.”

Mycroft sulked and huffed. “I may have work then.”

“No. Even if you do—blow them off. It’s not time to make plans, Mike. It’s time to hang on tight long enough to get an idea where things are going. So—pack things you can get dirty. Tweeds if you must, jeans if you want to pass for a normal damned person for a change.” And before Mycroft could say more, Lestrade stormed out, slamming the office door behind him. After all, if Mycroft really didn’t want to go, he could call. Or text. It wasn’t like he didn’t have Lestrade’s phone number.

He took Friday afternoon off from work. He shopped for a few specialty plants. He went home and packed. Then he drove over to Mycroft’s smaller office. The man was there waiting, hovering under the white porte-cochere with a wheeled suitcase huddling by his ankles like a frightened spaniel. Lestrade pulled over, popping the car door. “Come on in.”

Mycroft did, not speaking. He put the bag in the foot well behind the passenger seat, glanced briefly at the cardboard box filled with mysterious bags of bulbs and peat pots waiting to be set out. Then he sat in the passenger seat and latched himself securely.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said, voice sardonic.

Greg pulled out into London traffic, and navigated silently toward the M4 headed west, toward Swindon and Bristol. Mycroft kept his mouth shut.

“Looks like we may have rain tonight.”

“Not according to the national weather service.”

“Tha’s good. As soon not garden in the wet and the muck.”

“Mmmm.”

“Had dinner yet?”

“It’s only half-past five.”

“Then we may want to stop over in Swindon. Mum’s not expecting to serve us tea tonight. Tomorrow’s eggs and bacon and toast, I suspect. Or Welsh rabbit.”

“Mmmm. Simple but pleasing.”

“Mmm. So—know anyplace good to stop in Swindon?”

“Hardly. I travel as little as possible, and when forced to do otherwise it’s usually on a larger scale than…Swindon.”

“Right. Helsinki. Moscow. Paris. Vienna.”

“Yes. Tokyo. Beijing.”

“Then I’ll just try to pick a nice clean chippy.”

Mycroft sniffed, but did not object.

The wheels hummed on the roadway.  Lestrade, worried he’d fall asleep, flipped on the internet radio, looking for a good channel.

“BBC 3, if you don’t mind?”

Lestrade did, a bit. But classical music wasn’t offensive…just a bit slow. “Jazz, maybe?”

Mycroft was silent, then said, reluctantly, “Very well. If you can find something instrumental.”

The jazz station was vocal, swing, and felt entirely too Sinatra-y to both men. BBC 4 was doing a report on an historic murder. BBC 4Extra was doing an audio performance of a James Bond story. They ended up back on BBC 3.

“Sorry,” Mycroft said, sounding honestly repentant.

“No problem. Do you mind fish and chips, or do you want me to look for better?”

“Good fish and chips would be welcome.”

Greg grunted, and drove. The sun was long since down. Night seemed to press in on them.

He couldn’t find a decent chippy on the strip in Swindon.  Mycroft slipped out his phone and poked it, then said over the vibrato of a violin, “Sally Pussey’s Inn, Jn16, off the M4. It has a decent menu, good reviews, and looks quite reasonable in its online photos.”

“Um. Thanks. If that’s all right with you, then?”

“Fine. I’ll navigate.”

And he did…quite competently.

The food was what would commonly be called “good English pub food.” Greg ordered a beef and Guinness pie. Mycroft had chicken liver toasts for starters, and bangers and mash. Both men ordered a pint, a salad on the side, and dessert—Greg choosing sticky toffee pudding and Mycroft a berry panna cota. They were quiet as they ate. What startled Greg was how comfortable the silence was. He risked a glance at his dinner partner, studying Mycroft’s face. He looked tired…but at ease. Greg didn’t think he’d seen Mycroft at ease since the news of the American election had come in.

The rest of the trip went well, with classical music drifting through the cab of the car, and neither man forcing a conversation. When they arrived Greg’s mother flew out and gave them hugs and a gentle, meaningless flood of small talk, but once in they were all quickly sorted out and sent to their assigned rooms. Within an hour the house was dark and the occupants washed up and in bed.

Greg could hear Mycroft breathe in the room next door—slow, easy breaths occasionally interrupted by a grunt or a grumble, then resumed without drama. He smiled to himself. If Mycroft only got this much—a quiet drive to Mum’s house, a passable meal, and a good night’s sleep—it was still likely as not more pleasure than he’d had in weeks.

Morning came, and was greeted with eggs and rashers and hot tea and buttered toast. Mycroft ate happily, saying little, and Mum flew around her domain cheerfully. There were a few comments that verged on open rejoicing over the Brexit vote—and scathing annoyance with those locals who were less pleased than Mum—but on the whole it went well.

Greg’s mother lived in a suburb west of Bristol—a nice enough place, with little terraced houses each with minute front gardens and larger back gardens, ensuring that those who did not “love a garden” were not forced to suffer performance anxiety over too much landscaping in the public eye. Greg’s Mum had some repeat-blooming English Roses in the front, and a few daylilies, and not much more. The back was more ambitious, with a true perennial bed and bulbs and similar. There were dainty fuchsias with fairy-like blossoms, and more sturdy ones with scarlet and white blooms that hung like stout ballerinas in generous frilly tutus. The remains of the peonies needed taking down to ground level, and the daylilies needed to be pushed back to make room for more true lilies and bearded Iris. Greg poured hot tea into his father’s old Thermos flask—a monster of such great proportions it ought to keep him and Mycroft happy over the morning. Then he went out, gathered the garden tools from the shed, pulled out the barrel for burning the rubbish, and set out the plants and bulbs he’d brought along to perk the place up come spring-time.

Mycroft wandered out, still nibbling a piece of toast spread with the last bit of a runny egg. He wore, to Greg’s silent amusement, a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a pair of canvas boating shoes.

“They’re going to look like hell by the end of the day,” he said, glancing at the shoes.

“Mmm. I can afford to replace them,” Mycroft replied, and munched down the last bite of toast. “Your mother makes a good breakfast.”

“Aye. Usually more than I wanted as a boy,” Greg agreed. “Not one for eggs in the morning, then. Set my stomach off something awful. Like it better now I’m older.”

“Copper’s digestion” Mycroft said, smiling. “Where do you want me to start on the garden?”

“First we rake out the leaves,” Greg answered…and together they did. Then Greg and Mycroft dealt with cleaning out the dead material from the perennial border. Mycroft turned out to be a reasonably capable gardener, so Greg put him in charge of pruning back the rose bushes tucked into the border, while he dealt with the peonies, the poppies, and the daylilies, deciding what needed to be divided, what needed to be left as it was, and what should be thinned down entirely before it managed world conquest. In the end he’d spread new starts of the poppies and peonies, and heaped up a pile of daylilies to be given away to neighbors.

“Shouldn’t have much trouble,” he said, looking at the heap. “Mum’s been picking rebloomers for years, and fancy ones at that—near as frilly as the irises. She’ll find someone who wants a bit of posh for their beds.”

“That sounds utterly obscene,” Mycroft said. He looked around the garden with still grey eyes, evaluating. “This must be quite splendid most of the year.”

“Yeah, it is and all,” Greg agreed. He smiled. “Mum likes a bit of color, she does. And sentimental stuff. You’ll not be catching her wi’ a garden full of cactopuses and yuccacites.”

Mycroft splorted, caught off guard. “What did you just say?!”

Greg grinned. “Thinkin’ of a back garden I saw once workin’ a case. All cactus and yucca plants, tryin’ to look like a desert in mid-London. Sherlock was fascinated, but Anderson wanted nothing to do wi’ it—called ‘em cactopuses and yuccacites. Always thought it showed why we bother with Anderson—he may not be Sherlock, but he’s got his moments, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled. “I haven’t regretted hiring him on your recommendation. A good man, if limited. Within those limits, though, he’s quite sound…and, as you note, has a certain claim to wit.” He looked over the garden once more. “What next, then? I can cut back the fuschia a bit. And make sure that there are hollyhock seeds at the roots of the current lot, so you keep a stand there by the doorway.”

“Aye. I’ll prune the apple tree, then go get the plants and bulbs I brought. That will be the end of it—get them into the ground, then go in for an early tea. Not sure what we’re having…but I promised to cook.”

“I believe your mother said it was between liver and onion, and shepherd’s pie.”

“Then it’s shepherd’s pie. Mum likes liver more’n I do, and cooks it better, too. But I make a decent shepherd’s pie. If you don’t like liver it’s probably tomorrow’s brekker, though. Be warned.”

“Not a problem. I’m…mostly fond. If she makes it competently.”

They went about their tasks, then. Mycroft quickly had the fuchsia trimmed back , opening them up a bit and letting the light and air into the centers of the shrubs. In a moment of whimsy he tucked a sprig of the dainty fairy fuchsia behind one ear, so the crimson and white dancers fluttered by the side of his face. Then he raked up the soil at the bases of the hollyhocks and crumpled in the dried seed pods, knocking the papery discs loose from their tight-packed ring. By the time he was done the apple tree, like the fuchsias, was less hoary and closed off, and the box carrying the treats from London was set out on the patio table. Mycroft came up to examine the choices.

“Quite a lot of daffodils,” he said.

“Yeah. Well. Crocus and daffs. They’re spring, aren't they? Gotta make sure there’s something bright for spring. I’ll be bringing primroses down come April. And violas, too—all sorts.”

“Hmmm. Very sentimental.” Mycroft didn’t sniff, though, instead touching the tender fronds of a new fern, and then hefting a solid tuber. “More peony?”

“Aye. Nothing all that fancy, but lookit the picture. Pretty thing. And the tag says it’s a nice smelling one, too.”

Mycroft nodded. “Where do you want them? I assume placed away from the peonies she already has, but not tucked away too far out of sight.”

Lestrade spent the next fifteen minutes walking him around the yard, pointing out where he wanted plants and bulbs to go, marking the spots with broken twigs left from pruning the apple tree.

Before they could start, though, Mum came out with a plate of ham sandwiches, all with their crusts trimmed and cut catty-corner along the diagonals, forming neat little triangles on the platter.  The lettuce glowed a pale green-white, and the ham was a sweet rose-pink. With the sandwiches she’d brought bottles of local cider, a wedge of cheese, a wheel of good bread, and a bowl of grapes.

“That ought to keep two fine fellas like you for the afternoon. At least until tea time.” She considered the work they’d done and smiled. “Oh, you’ve done it up a treat, lads. It looks just right—a perfect slice of England all cleaned and polished up and only waiting for spring to come back to life.” Even as Lestrade clucked warning, she gave Mycroft a sly, reproving glance, and said, “And that’s how it shall be, lad—tha’ shall see. It’ll all work out, it will, and it will be grand.”

“Mum…”

She clucked back at her son. “Hesh, boy. I’ll keep my mouth shut the rest of the time, but I can’t see this lad lashin’ himself to bone and blood over what’s sure to be good in the end. It’s going to be fine, lad, fine. Maybe some hard years. Maybe even end up going back your way, some. But it’s fine, so long as we’re _England._ This gives us time to find that again, before it’s right gone.” And she turned and strode securely back into the house.

“Sorry,” Lestrade growled. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I warned her.”

Mycroft shook his head, eyes a little shocky, but with a contemplative furrow between his neat brows. “No, no worries. Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

They ate the sandwiches, having done no more than wipe grubby fingers on Mycroft’s pocket handkerchief—for which Lestrade teased him. The lettuce tasted lovely and bright and slightly metallic, a perfect contrast to the sweet, salty ham and the rich mayonnaise and sharp mustard. The cider was dry, but not too dry, and the cheese and bread and grapes were simple and right. When the men were done they turned to their tasks with pleasure, ending up kneeling side by side as Lestrade placed the last of the peonies and Mycroft tucked dozens of daffodil and crocus and grape hyacinth into the soft, rich soil.

“You should wear gloves,” said Lestrade, who wore none himself. “You’ll get dirt under your nails.”

“It’s only dirt,” Mycroft murmured as he completed a small, sweeping collection of daffodils pouring from a previous planting down toward the peonies. “Good English dirt.”

And then he paused. Then he stopped entirely, saying softly, “Oh…”

Lestrade looked over to find Mycroft stricken, hands turned up, fingers covered in soil. He stared into his palms.

“What?” Lestrade asked, sharply.

“Nothing. Nothing. Just—it’s winter, yes? Winter on the way.”

“Here already, if you go by the equinoxes and solstices.”

“Yes, yes, I understand that—I’m not my brother, who chose to delete modern astronomy. But it’s winter coming on, and we aren’t fighting it, are we? We’re planning instead for spring. Cleaning up the dead wood, getting the shrubs in shape, planting for the future. It’s not the end, is it? It’s just…winter.”

Lestrade heard Mycroft’s voice shake—saw his hands shake. He understood. “Yes, Mike. It’s just winter.”

Mycroft gave a wicked, bitter smile. “And if winter comes, can spring be far behind?”

Lestrade snorted. “Not so low-brow I don’t know that quote. ‘Ode to the West Wind.’”

“Yes. Autumn and spring….the winds are from the west.”

All sorts of resonance there, Lestrade thought, fighting down a smile. “I wont’ say I agree wi’ Mum,” he said. “I voted remain, after all. But—it’s winter, not Ragnarok. So long as there is an England, it’s going to be all right. Spring will come, and that’s what we have to be ready for.”

Their eyes locked, and something deep moved between them. Then Mycroft gave a sharp laugh, like the bark of a fox, and nodded. “Yes. Yes, indeed. And that includes pruning dead wood and burning it. Speaking of which, I have quite a lot of wood I’d as soon see burnt. Let’s finish this up and have ourselves a symbolic witch-burning.”

And so they did. Soon the garden was clean and neat and prepared for spring, with a layer of soft mulch tossed over everything to keep the tender plants safe from winter’s cold. The deadwood was trimmed away. The bulbs and seeds planted for a revival to come. At last the two men stood, butts propped on the patio table, long sticks in hand to prod the fire as they lit up the barrel and burned off the dross.

“It’s going to be all right, Mike,” Lestrade said, feeling more certain of it by the second as he watched his old colleague revive and take strength from the sweet scent of leaf-smoke.

Mycroft, gazing into the embers, nodded, his old, focused drive returning. “Yes,” he said, “It will. And I have some ideas how to improve it all in the meantime…”

Later they went in, smelling of the bonfire. Lestrade made shepherd’s pie. Mycroft played Mum’s little standup piano, starting with “O, Come Emmanuel,” and ending with the old Tennyson lullaby from the Princess, “Sweet and Low.” And through it all Mum hummed and smiled, secure in a future she believed in with all her heart—that could only bloom if her boy and his friend helped make it so.


End file.
